


Loose Ends

by aban_asaara



Series: Freakshow: John Hancock and Lizzy Oslow Hayes [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drugs, F/M, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Memories, POV First Person, Pining, Romance, Sexual Content, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Torture, Violence, everything is the same except Lizzy is not from Vault 111
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29387547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_asaara/pseuds/aban_asaara
Summary: There’s John Hancock and there’s John McDonough, God rest his soul, and a whole-ass canyon between the two. Never was one to peer over the edge of that precipice and see what the dead have been up to. Let bygones be bygones, and John McDonough’s bye-fucking-gone. Okay, sure, there’s that time with the twins from New Vegas I like to revisit at the Memory Den once in a while, but that’s all in good fun. Harmless, really.Ain’t nothing harmless about Lizzy. Figure she’d blow the doors of my very own mausoleum wide open first thing upon coming back to town.Always had a flair for drama, that woman.When Hancock’s old flame returns to Goodneighbour for the first time in almost ten years, searching for her kidnapped son, it’s more than just nostalgia that makes him tag along.
Relationships: John Hancock/Female Sole Survivor
Series: Freakshow: John Hancock and Lizzy Oslow Hayes [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953811
Comments: 34
Kudos: 28





	1. Blast From The Past

**Author's Note:**

> A friend asked me some time ago what would Lizzy’s story have been if she’d not been the Sole Survivor, and I said she’d be Magnolia if Magnolia wasn’t already there. The idea wouldn’t leave me alone so I just had to write it, and it became a very, _very_ self-indulgent excuse to explore Hancock’s backstory and spend some more time in my favourite FO4 settlement. In this AU, Lizzy is just a regular resident of the Commonwealth instead of being the sole survivor of Vault 111, and she was Magnolia’s predecessor in the Third Rail before leaving Goodneighbour. This is in no way meant as character bashing, as I love Magnolia and she does make a small appearance in the fic!
> 
> I also did my best to keep the spirit of Hancock’s backstory even some might details might be different. It was important to me to keep his motivations intact even after rather gracelessly shoving my OC in his backstory, so I hope it works for you! This is also my first attempt at writing in the first person, so fingers crossed my experiment paid off! Thank you so much for stopping by, and I hope you enjoy this fic! <3

The sounds  
Of the Harlem night  
Drop one by one into stillness.  
The last player-piano is closed.  
The last victrola ceases with the  
“Jazz Boy Blues.”  
The last crying baby sleeps  
And the night becomes  
Still as a whispering heartbeat.  
I toss  
Without rest in the darkness,  
Weary as the tired night,  
My soul  
Empty as the silence,  
Empty with a vague,  
Aching emptiness,  
Desiring,  
Needing someone,  
Something.

I toss without rest  
In the darkness  
Until the new dawn,  
Wan and pale,  
Descends like a white mist  
Into the court-yard.

— _Summer Night_ , Langston Hughes

I know something’s up the instant Irma swans into the Old State House.

“Mayor Hancock,” she says, all demure smiles and rustling feathers. “Am I interrupting?”

“Irma,” I say, leaning back into the couch. “Nah, we were just about done here. Weren’t we, Fahr?”

Fahrenheit throws me a dark look from across the chessboard. “ _I’m_ not finished,” she snarls.

Irma hovers in the doorway, unsure, and I motion her inside. “Yeah, you are,” I retort, grinning at Fahrenheit. Truth is, she can still wriggle out of this one—rook to D3 and she’d stand a pretty good chance of taking my queen—and I give her an hour tops till she figures it out and calls me a few choice insults. She glares at the pieces left on the board, red eyebrows furrowed over steepled hands, then finally knocks her king over and pushes herself off the couch to sit on the windowsill instead.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” I ask Irma.

Irma sits primly in Fahrenheit’s place, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her skirt. The feathers shiver around her head, and I can’t help but wonder what kind of unfortunate creature sported those before the nukes. “Just paying an old friend a visit,” she lies. It takes one to know one; Irma _never_ makes the climb up the spiral staircase of the State House. God forbid anyone sees her out of breath, one flaxen hair out of place. “It’s been a while since we’ve had the pleasure of your patronage.”

At first I think she’s stalling, but no. She’s _gloating_. She knows something I don’t, and she’s making the pleasure last.

I play innocent. “Huh. Didn’t think business had gotten that bad.”

She blinks, then recovers almost immediately, to her credit. “Oh, nothing like that,” Irma says, then starts straightening the tins of Mentats on the coffee table. “But if there’s anything we can do to make your visits more pleasurable, then do let me know.”

I prop my heels on the coffee table, fingers laced at the nape of my neck. “Thanks. Still tryna think of a good one for next time.”

Irma makes a pensive noise as she moves on to the shotgun shells, lining them up in neat little soldier rows. I try not to look as depressed as I feel. “We might just have the thing for you, then.”

I click my tongue in disapproval. “Irma, Irma, Irma. Don’t tell me you’ve been digging round my brain. Not that I mind an audience, but ain’t the Memory Den all about keeping its patrons’ secrets?”

“Oh, of course,” she says in mock indignation, one hand to her chest. “I would never _dream_ of breaching my patrons’ trust, yours least of all.” She pretends to examine her nails, and I pretend I don’t care. “I’m not talking about a memory so much as a _ghost_ , really.”

My mouth’s gone dry. The click of Fahrenheit’s lighter almost makes me jump. “Who?” I ask.

I know the name before she says it. Irma glances up from her nails, looking surprised to find me sitting in front of her. “Oh, a certain Elizabeth Hayes is back in town.”

 _Lizzy_ , I almost correct her, _she hates ‘Elizabeth’_ , but that ain’t me. That’s John McDonough talking, the little shit.

Fuck. I’m itching for a fix, but Jet’s not gonna cut it. Not if she’s here. “Where is she?”

I thought I kept my voice the right amount of disinterested, but Fahrenheit’s wondering gaze is boring holes into the side of my head. Feels like she can see everything in there now, starting with John McDonough banging against the inside of my brain where I thought I’d buried him.

Irma drops her chin on her palm and smiles, savouring the moment. “Why, at the Memory Den, of course. Where else?”

Where else indeed. Wish I could play it cool, but I don’t trust Lizzy not to pull another disappearing act before I can make it to the Memory Den. Irma can titter all she wants. I give her my most charming grin. “Well, never keep a lady waiting, right?”

I push my feet off the table with enough force to topple Irma’s careful rows of shotgun shells, grab my tricorner hat, and head for the Memory Den.

* * *

Most folks have a before and an after.

The line changes from person to person: a near-death experience, some tragic loss, an elite fuck that makes you realize you’ve been having bad sex all your life. For ghouls, shedding bits of yourself for the better part of a year usually does the trick. Nothing changes you like losing an ear mid-hookup, let me tell you.

In my case, it’s a goddamned faultline. There’s John Hancock and there’s John McDonough, God rest his soul, and a whole-ass canyon between the two. Never was one to peer over the edge of that precipice and see what the dead have been up to. Let bygones be bygones, and John McDonough’s bye-fucking-gone. Okay, sure, there’s that time with the twins from New Vegas I like to revisit at the Memory Den once in a while, but that’s all in good fun. Harmless, really.

Ain’t nothing harmless about Lizzy. Figure she’d blow the doors of my very own mausoleum wide open first thing upon coming back to town.

Always had a flair for drama, that woman.

Of course she’d pick the Memory Den as the backdrop for her big return. I push the door, hold it open for Irma as an apology for knocking down her little tower, then follow her into the dim, rosy interior. The place’s quiet, but it’s early yet. A couple of patrons are busy strolling down memory lane, reclining under the plastic lid of their pods where the magic’s happening. Amari explained it to me once: electrical impulses activating certain synapses to trick the frontal lobe into reliving specific memories. Her theory is that memories are stored intact in the brain, and the secret’s to find the right path back to them. That’s where the Memory Den comes in.

The faint crackling noises of Kent Connolly’s radio seep from under the door of his studio, and the air’s filled with some static charge that’s more than just the memory loungers. If I had any hair left, it’d be standing on end.

Forget the pods. I’m about to meet my past in the flesh, and I’m terrified.

Irma stretches like a cat on her tufted chaise. “She’s in the basement with Amari,” she says, waving one dismissive hand towards the stairs.

“Thanks, Irma.”

Now’s my chance to turn back around, but I was done for the instant the name Elizabeth Hayes dropped from Irma’s lipsticked mouth. Look, resisting temptation has never been my strong suit: I love my vices, none more so than the chance to hurt a little, and if I knew what’s good for me then I wouldn’t be a ghoul, or a chemhead, or going down those stairs.

Amari’s voice reaches my ears first. “Any chance you’re going to actually listen to my recommendations if I tell you to rest?”

I freeze, fingers on the handrail, one foot hovering over the next step. “Not a chance,” Lizzy answers, and her voice shoots through me like Psycho, straight to the heart: light and clear and full of promise, like she’s just waiting for an excuse to explode into laughter. For a moment it’s like the past however many years never happened, like I woke up that very morning by her side. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“Nothing to it.”

I can’t do this. I turn to leave, but the step creaks under my weight. A dog starts barking, giving me away. “Irma, is that you?” Amari calls out.

“Just me,” I call back, coming down the stairs. “Hey, pooch.”

A lean brindle mutt is curled up at the foot of the exam table, barking again when I poke my head into the doorway. “Gilda, _hush_ ,” Lizzy says, in a low warning voice.

All I see is one nice, leather-clad leg on the exam table, but her voice alone might just do me in. Amari’s bent over her, visibly miffed I just waltzed in, but I pretend not to notice the dark look she throws my way. Gilda’s tail gives a slow, tired wag when I scratch her between the ears, then she drops her head back on her front paws. Poor girl’s worse for wear. Fresh sutures run across her haunch, and she’s got bandages wrapped around one leg. Lizzy doesn’t seem to be faring much better: she’s lying back under the glare of a lamp while Amari snips off the extra length of thread from the sutures on her left side. Tubes are plugged into the crook of her elbow, connecting to a pouch of RadAway and a blood bag.

Amari sets her scissors down, then helps Lizzy sit up on the exam table. I’m not ready, but there’s no safeword for when you’re about to see your old flame’s face again after the better part of a decade. Maybe Amari’s on to something, about our brains preserving memories like amber: my reaction is almost physical, like I’d kept the past tucked away for this moment, ready to let it loose the instant Lizzy stepped back into my life. It slices through my mind sharp as a switchblade and shaves the past seven years down to nothing, fills my bloodstream like Mentats, lights up my whole brain with a million forgotten colours and sounds and smells. Lizzy’s breath on my ear, her lipstick on my collar, the sweet scent of her hair tumbling loose in my hands. A song I haven’t thought of in years: _you make me dizzy, miss Lizzy, girl, I wanna marry you_.

I wanna say she hasn’t changed, but that’d be a lie. She’s traded the flirty dresses and sophisticated curls for leather and a bun that threatens to come loose, for starters, and I see Vic’s handiwork for the first time, bisecting her face from temple to nose bridge. Her face is bare, just like the day we met, making her look younger than I expect.

But she hasn’t changed in any way that matters. Her gaze rakes me from head to toe, and that fierce, green glimmer is still the same as ever. I just stand there, gaping like she punched me in the stomach.

She rolls down her shirt over the wound on her side. “You must be that Hancock guy,” she says flatly.

So no one’s broken the news to her yet. Somehow it never occurred to me she might not have the faintest fucking clue who I am.

I bite back a laugh. Not how I pictured our reunion, but hey, I wanted John McDonough scrubbed off the face of the earth, and apparently I got that one thing right. Can’t have my Fancy Lads Snack Cake and eat it too.

“Frock coat gave it away?” I reply, leaning against the wall and crossing my arms over my chest. She doesn’t laugh. Tough crowd. “Thought I’d welcome you to Goodneighbour myself. What brings you to my little refuge for the freaks and misfits?”

Lizzy’s mouth thins. “I’m looking for my son, if you must know.”

 _Now_ the years slam between us like a wall. Never took her as the playing house type, but lots of things can change in seven years, I would know. Hers is by far the least unlikely transformation.

I ignore John McDonough making it all about himself somewhere at the back of my skull. “Shit. Sorry, sister. Think he might be here?”

She hesitates. Amari gently pulls the needles out of Lizzy’s arm, then presses some gauze to her elbow. “If anyone can help, it’s Hancock,” she says.

No reason Lizzy should trust me, but the suggestion apparently sparks a vigorous internal debate, judging by the wiggle of her foot—I know her well enough to know that what she keeps out of her face still ends up going somewhere. She’s always had a stubborn, contrarian streak, so I wait till she’s talked herself into it. “All right,” she finally says, nodding to herself. “Some Goodneighbour gang kidnapped him, I have no idea why. I tried going after them, but I didn’t make it far. Figured it’d be as good a place as any to find some lead,” she finishes, and there’s a brittle edge to her words I know wasn’t supposed to be there.

“A Goodneighbour gang? You sure?”

Big mistake. That green flare lights up her eyes again. “I lived here before you were even in the picture, Mister Mayor. I know the reek of Goodneighbour when I smell it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, lifting my palms up. “Thought of hiring Nick Valentine in Diamond City? He’s probably your best bet.”

She’s shaking her head before I’m even done talking. “Too far. Shaun doesn’t have _time_.” She slips off the exam table, wincing, then grabs the leather jacket folded over the couch’s armrest. “Now if you’re done wasting mine, I’m going to look for him.”

“Wait,” I say. Lizzy stops, eyes narrowed, one arm thrust into her sleeve. “Thought of using the pods?”

I catch Amari’s eye, and I know she’s caught on. “It’d be highly irregular. We never let people see other patrons’ memories, for obvious reasons.”

“But it’d work, right? Plug me in, too, and maybe I can spot something that’ll help find him.”

I sound too eager, but what the hell. Much as I love ‘em, Goodneighbour folks aren’t the talkative type. Spent a lot of time in Nick Valentine’s office, back in my Diamond City days, even tagged along on a couple of cases, so I know where he’d start: potential witnesses, door-to-door interviews, criss-crossing evidence till the suspect focused into view. Good ol’ Nicky must’ve taken pity on the bored orphan whose only remaining family was his brother and the oversized stick lodged in said brother’s ass, but I was never PI material. Cut too many corners, and my dick can hardly be called _private_ , har har.

Anyway, Lizzy’s right. We ain’t got time.

“Yes, it would work,” Amari confirms, obviously not thrilled with the idea, then turns to Lizzy. “We load the both of you in the memory loungers, and I can simply have his pod replicate your brainwave patterns so he sees the same thing as you. Of course that means you’d have to relive a potentially traumatic memory—”

Lizzy tosses her jacket back on the couch. “Let’s do it.”

Amari blinks. “Are you sure—”

“I am. I said, let’s do it.”

Lizzy wobbles to one of the two memory loungers to prove her point. Amari sighs, then punches some commands into her terminal. “Have a seat, Mayor Hancock.”

I drop my hat on top of Lizzy’s jacket and sit down in the empty pod. Haven’t been in one of those in a while, and my heartbeat picks up as the lid comes down with a hissing noise. It’s one thing to revisit a ménage à trois or your predecessor’s hanging, another to get first-row seats for the abduction of your old flame’s son.

It’s both a good and a terrible idea. Lizzy’s return is like a fishhook, dragging my whole past out with it. Behind a low stone wall, the yard slopes towards the white churn of the river, water glittering under a descending sun. Not the Charles. The Malden? Doesn’t matter. Somehow I’m back to my childhood by the waterfront: the cozy cracks and pops of a fire, cooking smells tickling my nose, clear guitar chords drifting from the verandah. I almost expect to hear my mom’s laughter or my pop whistling, but Lizzy starts humming along, and my chest clenches. _I say I’ll go through fire, and I’ll go through fire_ , she sings into her cooking tongs, shoulders swaying lazily in time, and—shit. Feels like I should be there, like I could just slip my arms around her from behind and kiss her hair, whisper something in her ear to make her laugh and accuse me of distracting her. _Go make yourself useful, Just John_ , she’d say, shooing me away, and I’d steal one last kiss from her before doing whatever mundane, domestic task regular folks busy themselves with.

But I ain’t there, of course. It’s just her and the kid, and soon not even that.

“Baby, go set the table,” Lizzy says, glancing at Shaun over her shoulder. Kid’s got his momma’s musical disposition: he’s bent over the comically large guitar in his lap, the pink tip of his tongue sticking out the side of his mouth. “And wash your hands.”

Shaun sets his guitar aside. “I’m not a baby,” he informs her on his way inside the house.

Lizzy smiles to herself. “Okay, baby,” she says, returning her attention to the mirelurk legs turning red on the grill. Next to her, Gilda tracks her every move, licking her muzzle in anticipation. Her eyes follow the ‘lurk legs as Lizzy takes them off the fire. “Oops,” she says, then drops a chunk of steaming meat at Gilda’s feet.

But something else has the dog’s attention now. She’s sniffing the air urgently, ears perked up, then takes off towards the house.

“Gilda? What’s up, girl?”

Gilda howls, scratching at the door. Adrenaline slams through me—well, through _Lizzy_ , but I feel it like my own. She’s on her feet and running towards the house with all the speedy alert of a wasteland mom, shotgun in hand, cooking tongs forgotten in the sand.

Okay, maybe she has a point about Goodneighbour. There’s definitely _something_ about the motley crew of ruffians packed into her living room. Too sharp for raiders, too sinister for most settlements, and the two ghouls take Diamond City right out. The leader’s human, but I don’t recognize him. And trust me, I’d _know_ if I’d seen him before: the tip of his nose and a chunk of his cheek are missing, and his eyelid sags over an empty socket. He’s got the gaunt, twitchy look of someone who should’ve cut back on chems five years ago, and that’s me saying that. Ghoulification might actually be an improvement on the guy.

He’s got one large paw covering Shaun’s mouth, and the kid’s tears are running down the tattoos on his knuckles. Lizzy slowly raises the shotgun over her head. “I’ve got caps and jewelry in a safe upstairs,” she says, her voice impressively even. “Let him go and I’ll give you the combination. I’ll give you anything.”

“Got what we came for right here,” Half-Face says, and there’s something familiar about his voice but I can’t place it. Laughing, he aims his pipe pistol at Lizzy. The light streaming through the bay window glints on the barrel, and the muzzle stares at her like a dark eye. Her breath catches in her throat.

Gilda lunges.

Lizzy dives behind the couch just as the gun goes off. Bits of stuffing fly everywhere. There’s a thud and a sharp, high-pitched whine. Lizzy fumbles with the shotgun and pokes her head out of cover, but bullets whistle past her to sink into the peeling wallpaper.

“Get rid of her, Ash,” Half-Face commands.

Shaun’s watery wail moves farther and farther away. Lizzy’s fear leaves a raw, animal taste at the back of my mouth; she calls out for Shaun, but footsteps are drawing near, and a man with a cropped head of dark red hair appears behind the couch.

She fires—a split second too early, and Ash ducks out of the way. Lizzy scrambles for the nearby doorway while bullets send plaster and chips of wood raining down on her. Her shoulder slams into the opposite wall, and I’m not spared the memory of the dull, numbing pain. The shotgun slips out of her grasp, clattering to the floor. “Shit,” we both mutter, but there’s no time to pick it up. Lizzy shoves herself off the wall, then makes for the door at the end of the hallway. Her pulse fills my ears, but I don’t know if the anger’s hers or mine.

“C’mon, love,” Ash calls out, and the low light flickers as he steps into the hallway. “Let’s get this over with.”

Too close. Bastard’s right behind us, and I’m dying to turn around and show him what we’re made of. Lizzy’s got the right of it, though. She decides against the front door, grabs the jamb of the doorway to her right, and spins herself into the kitchen. Good call: the next bullet just barely misses her, and the glass set in the front door explodes. Her hipbone slams into the corner of the kitchen table with a sharp burst of pain, but Ash’s lank shape fills the doorway, and the cold, hard rip of terror neatly sears the pain away. Lizzy heaves the table onto its side, then ducks into what little cover it affords and scrambles to the door leading back to the verandah.

She stumbles outside. A bullet hits one of the posts with a loud cracking noise, and she yelps as splinters graze her cheek and bare arm. An acrid smell drifts from the mirelurk legs now burning on the fire; she pulls one of the smouldering logs from the flames, and swings it at the shadow moving at the edge of her vision. Ash lets out a pained, angry shout behind her as Lizzy takes off towards the waterline.

Only twenty yards to the water. I have to remind myself Lizzy’s only steps away from me in reality, just a few hours in the future: my lizard brain can’t tell, and I’m terrified for me, her, _us_. My lungs burn as she runs, then vaults over the low stone wall. A blinding flash, like a nuke going off; something slams into me, and pain blooms wet and hot on my left side. The sky and river whirl around like I took one hit too many, and I land in the damp, muddy earth of the bank. Ash’s silhouette appears over the wall. Fresh burns blister his forearms and one of his cheeks, and pain twists his features as he takes aim. My hate for the guy would be potent on its own; combined with Lizzy’s, it hits harder than Psycho.

She’s made of tougher stuff than the smiles and girly dresses let on, though. She scrambles to her feet, then leaps into the water.

Explains the RadAway. Ballsy move, considering she’s pretty much bait with all that blood soaking her dress. She lets the current carry her away, struggling to stay afloat with the pain burning through her side like a fire poker. But she’s strong, my Lizzy, and she manages to swim back ashore and haul herself out of the water.

By the time she crawls back on land, the rads are already doing their thing. She throws up, staggers to her feet, throws up again. Agony still pulses where the bullet hit, and blood oozes through the soaked fabric of her dress. Gasping for breath, she presses one hand down on her side and drags herself back home, towards Gilda’s mournful howls.

Amari pulls us both out of the memory. The lid of my lounger lifts with a hiss, and the hum of the fluorescent lights replaces the reddish glow of the sunset. My hands are closed into fists, and I have to force myself to unclench them. In the next pod, Lizzy’s sitting with her eyes shut tight, her chest heaving with sharp, hard-won inhales. The downturned corners of her mouth quiver.

“Slow, deep breaths,” Amari tells her, rubbing her shoulder comfortingly, then throws a sidelong glance my way. “Please tell me you saw something useful.”

“Matter of fact, I did,” I say, pushing myself out of the pod.

Lizzy’s head whips in my direction. Her eyes are still wide with the leftover fear, the green popping out even more against thin rings of white. They’re fixed on me so intently I have to make an effort not to turn away. “You know that man?”

“Not Half-Face, no,” I say, fishing my smokes out of my coat. Amari’s mouth twists in displeasure—times like these I get what Amari and Irma see in each other—but I need something to take the edge off. I give the pack a shake in Lizzy’s general direction, but she shakes her head. “But I know Ash.”

Well, not personally, but I know the company he keeps, or used to keep. No idea why he’s teaming up with Triggermen and that ugly brute now, but I intend to find out. Child trafficking? Slavery? Whatever the fuck it is, I don’t want it in my town.

“Could Shaun be here, then?” Lizzy asks. “In Goodneighbour?”

The pleading note in her voice breaks my heart. I remember back when a flick of her lashes and a smile would drive men mad. Now she looks too much like a kid herself to have one of her own.

God, I still can’t believe she’s right there in front of me, close enough to touch. Looking at her I’m young again: young, in love, _human_.

But I can’t do any of what I’d like to do, so I muster a lopsided smile. “Dunno, but I know who to ask.”

* * *

Last time I let Lizzy out of my sight, she vanished for years. The last thing I wanna do is leave her again, but I need to do my thing—discreetly—and by her own admission, she needs a drink. I swing by the Old State House to get Fahrenheit up to speed; the quirk of her eyebrow tells me exactly what she thinks of my not-so-new association, but she doesn’t ask and gets to work.

To my relief, Lizzy’s in the Third Rail, just where she said she’d be. Old habits die hard: not a single line of her body is wasted as she perches in front of Whitechapel Charlie in a pose of studied nonchalance, chin resting on one hand, legs arrayed to the side.

Damn. Those really are some legs.

I make my way to the bar, nodding to the few patrons still sober enough to recognize me. Gilda lifts her head off the floor at Lizzy’s feet, and greets me with a huffing noise. Her mistress’s voice drifts to my ears: “Did you get her off an assembly line or something?”

“Hey, you were gone for years, love,” Chuck retorts, scrubbing a glass clean, more or less. “D’you know how many caps I’d have lost if I’d waited for you to come back? Music’s good for business. You know that.”

“I know.” She sighs, then tosses back what’s left of her drink. “Just let me wallow for a minute.”

“Settling down didn’t work out, eh? Didn’t think you were the type. Not unless it was with—” I make slitting throat motions with one finger behind her shoulder. Chuck clears his non-existent throat before focusing back on Lizzy. “Now, where are my manners? Fancy another drink?”

I lean against the counter next to Lizzy. “On the house, Chuck,” I say, then consider her, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. She’s put on some lipstick at some point after the Memory Den, which doesn’t help matters. “Lemme guess. Bourbon Nuka-Cherry.”

Her drink of choice, back in the day. I wonder if she’ll put two and two together, but she just chuckles. “Am I that predictable?”

“Nah. Suits you, is all. A kick under the sweetness.”

That draws a brief smile out of her. Still not above flattery. “What about you?” Her gaze flits to the hat, then back to my face. “Tea, so you can dump it into the harbour?”

Even Chuck laughs, which I didn’t even realize was a thing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You think you can waltz back into Goodneighbour and be funnier than me? Can’t have that, sister.”

I’m graced with a chuckle now. Progress. “So it’s true what they say about you.”

“Oh, yeah. _Especially_ the stuff that makes me look good.”

Chuck sets Lizzy’s cherry abomination and my usual on the bar, and I clink my glass against hers. “Thanks for your help back there,” she says, a flick of green glancing my way.

“Anytime.”

Lizzy’s eyes then stray to Magnolia, strutting her stuff on the stage. That low husky voice drifts like cigarette smoke in the bar, and I can almost hear Lizzy’s girlish, flirtatious pitch underneath, like an old holotape that got recorded over too many times. It doesn’t take long for Mags to notice the newcomer staring at her, and she levels a smile and a wink in our direction.

“Dammit, she’s good,” Lizzy mutters, stirring a fingernail in her drink. “Somehow it’d be easier if I knew I could do a better job.”

“Yeah?”

She frowns at the dark, reddish swirls in her glass. “I used to sing here,” she explains, like I hadn’t spent hundreds of nights sitting in the very same spot, listening to her. “Place isn’t the same anymore, yet it hasn’t changed at all. Feels like I could just”—her breath does a quick little thing—“step back on that stage and sing, and I’d be home again.” Lizzy smiles, a cold, wry line. “Stupid, right?”

I get it. Seven years ago, I could’ve slipped my hand through her hair and kissed her. The words trip over my tongue: _Surprise, Liz, it’s me, John_. Easy-peasy, but I can’t make myself say them. Now all I can do is clutch my drink and hope the cold takes the burn out of my fingers.

Still the same, and not at all.

“Ain’t stupid at all. Bet you could get on that stage and give Mags a run for her caps.”

Her smile turns sour at the edges. “I don’t sing anymore, so there’s no point, is there?”

“Heard you sing in that memory,” I try, remembering the silky ribbon of her voice tying itself to her kid’s guitar. “It was beautiful.”

A misfire this time. Lizzy’s eyes slide back to me, shuttered. “You’re the one who killed Vic, aren’t you?”

Not what I expected. I glance at the scar running straight across her face before I can stop myself, then take a slug of scotch. The tasteless burn runs down my throat. “Yeah,” I simply say.

That green gaze stays fixed on me, assessing. “How d’you do it?”

Somehow, I get the feeling she’s testing me. I give her the short version. “Got some drifters together, loaded up, and ambushed Vic’s boys when he let them loose on the town. Then we just strolled into the Old State House, wrapped a rope around his neck, and threw him off the balcony.”

Left him there a while, too. Cut the rope before the smell got too bad, but by then Vic’s corpse had served as target practice for more than a few disgruntled drifters. Maybe not exactly righteous, but it sure made us feel better. In fact, seeing that scar on Lizzy’s face, I could use another round or two.

God, I remember it like it was yesterday. The adrenaline pumping in my veins, my hands steady on the trigger, that voice in my head saying, _do it, John_. It was so fucking easy, once I got over the fear. Swore that day I’d never let it control me again.

Guess I’m still a coward after all.

Lizzy doesn’t look impressed, judging by the skeptical arch of her eyebrow. “That easy, huh?”

“Hardest part was convincing myself to do it.”

I don’t know what I even want her to say. Thank me? Praise me? Tell me I did good? Going after Vic cost me the only woman I’ve ever loved, and she still ain’t swooning into my arms. Instead, her jaw works like she’s trying not to cry, and her eyes shine with a hard, bright glint like steel.

Whatever she wanted, revenge wasn’t it. Or maybe she wanted it for herself and I stole it from her.

“Well, glad someone did it,” she says, then presses her mouth into a polite smile. “I should see about hiring that merc. Excuse me.”

Lizzy leaves her half-finished drink on the counter, then heads for the VIP area, Gilda on her heels. Thankfully, I don’t have to sit there steeping in my own thoughts for long. Mags walks over and leans against the counter next to me, sending a waft of rich, heady perfume my way. “Friend of yours?” she asks.

“Tell you the truth, I dunno anymore.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. I might have asked you to introduce me. I know a fellow performer when I see one,” she says, her mysterious smile giving nothing away, but I’d bet she has a special kind of duet in mind.

I smile into my glass, remembering Lizzy’s comment about an assembly line. Two songbirds with dark hair and a predilection for jazz music and shiny dresses. Maybe she’s right and someone at the Institute has a type. Wouldn’t blame him. “Your predecessor, yeah.”

Mags laughs her soft, secretive laugh. “Got a lot going on in that pretty little head of hers, don’t she?”

“You can say that again.”

Gotta give it to Mags, she knows when not to push. She sticks around for the time of a smoke before getting back on stage. Lizzy leaves the VIP area soon after, Gilda trotting after her. My body wants to go after her like it wants a smoke or a hit, and it takes all I’ve got to stay there instead, listening to Mags crooning and nursing my drink and my regrets like all the other poor bastards in the place.

Told myself I’d never look back, but Lizzy’s burst that door wide open, and I might as well take a little peek. John McDonough’s long dead, I remind myself, and the dead don’t bite.

Famous last words.


	2. Lighting Matches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock reminisces about his first meeting with Lizzy almost ten years ago, back when Hancock didn’t even exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who’s given this fic a try! <3 I am very touched by the response the first chapter got, and I hope you will enjoy this update even half as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you all for sticking with me!

I have committed the worst of sins  
One can commit. I have not been  
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion  
Take and engulf me, mercilessly.  
My parents bore me for the risky  
And the beautiful game of life,  
For earth, water, air and fire.  
I failed them, I was not happy.  
Their youthful hope for me unfulfilled.  
I applied my mind to the symmetric  
Arguments of art, its web of trivia.  
They willed me bravery. I was not brave.  
It never leaves me. Always at my side,  
That shadow of a melancholy man.

— _Remorse_ , Jorge Luis Borges

How long has it been? Ten years? More?

Lizzy could’ve been gone for a day or a century, for all I know—I got a lot of time I can’t account for—but once I do the math, turns out it’s only just short of nine years. ‘79. Summer, of course, because ain’t no spotlight like the sun on the longest, hottest days of the year.

Did I mention she’s got a flair for drama?

I had a smooth set of skin back then, my pop’s blue eyes, and my ma’s unruly blond hair, which I wore long specifically to annoy my brother: _for God’s sake, John, you live in the stands now, John, I won’t have you look like some field rat, John, make some goddamned_ effort. No skin off my back: plenty of Diamond City’s finer folks have some serious field fever, as long as the rat’s discreet about it. Not that my brother would know anything about it, considering how little action his bed ever sees.

Come to think of it, wonder which son would’ve disappointed our parents the most. The ego-trippin’ bigot, or the junkie who went ghoul?

On second thought, not sure I wanna know.

Anyway, all of that to say I didn’t look anywhere near as devastating then as I do now. I still called myself John, not Hancock, and especially not _McDonough_. Fuck my brother for ruining a perfectly respectable family name. Did what I could to redeem it, but one man ain’t enough to fix what another broke. Funny how that works. And by “funny” I mean it makes me fucking sick.

I remember shuffling awkwardly in the Trattners’ doorway, my arms full of radstag meat wrapped in pages of the Boston Bugle. “Got lucky outside town and brought down this radstag. Too much meat for me, so figured I’d hand out some of it before it spoils,” I said, like I didn’t live off Jet and BlamCo Mac & Cheese washed down with vodka.

Mr. Trattner—Mitch, I think? Yeah, Mitch—took the meat and smiled, but it didn’t reach his bloodshot blue eyes. _China Showdown: the Atomic Ultimatum_ read the op-ed wrapped around the radstag meat. Behind the slumped line of her husband’s shoulder, Stacey Trattner was staring resolutely out the cracks in the boards nailed to the window. Never saw more of her than the curve of one mangled cheek. No idea if she just never budged from her spot by the window, or if it was a special for when I swung by.

Then again, the entertainment on offer in Goodneighbour might be a tad extreme for your average two-hundred-and-something-year-old housewife. I considered bringing her books or magazines next time.

“Thanks, John,” Mitch said. “Appreciate it.”

“Least I can do.”

I was already on my way when Mitch called out after me. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

He was staring at a hole in one of his shoes when I turned, his frown deepening the grooves in his leathery skin. “I don’t mind,” I said.

“I know. I know. And don’t get me wrong, we really appreciate all you’ve done for us, we just … We’re thinking of leaving town,” he sighed, like he’d just admitted defeat.

Can’t say I was surprised. The Trattners weren’t the first. Some wanted nothing to do with me on account of my name. Others just hated having to depend on someone else for food and necessities. I didn’t blame them, but it still stung like failure.

Mitch didn’t need to know that, though. I scrounged up some enthusiasm. “Yeah? Where to?”

“Not sure yet. Heard some places outside the Commonwealth are safer for ghouls. Washington, maybe.”

“That’s a long ways away.”

His smile was hollow. “It’s worth a shot. This town’s not just for us, John. You’re young, and this”—a vague gesture around himself, but I got the feeling he didn’t just mean Goodneighbour, or even the Commonwealth—“this is all you’ve ever known. We’re so goddamned _old_. We just want to be left in peace, me and Stacey.”

And between Vic and his boys, the Triggermen, and whatever other outfits sprouted like pustules all over town, peace was hard to come by in Goodneighbour. Diamond City was always a little too strict for me, even before McDonough took over, but if boring was your thing, the security kept the muggings and murders under relative control, and the Wall kept the raiders and super mutants out.

Not if you were a ghoul, though. Not anymore.

_I’m sorry_ , I wanted to say, but the words were stuck in my throat like fishbones. _I’m sorry for what my brother did to you_.

Instead I just nodded. “Well, you two need anything, you let me know.”

“Yeah. Thanks for everything, John.”

That was the last time I ever saw the Trattners. Hope they found their peace, and not in any way that’s permanent.

Outside, the sun had dipped behind the tower of the Old State House. I headed for the last stop of my sad little circuit, my shotgun in one hand and one last radstag leg tucked under my arm. Gunshots rang out in the stifling summer air, too close to be on the other side of the wall, but no one seemed particularly bothered. Just another beautiful summer evening in Goodneighbour.

The neon lights of the Third Rail flickered under the balcony, beckoning. I could’ve used a drink or twenty, but Ham the bouncer saw me dithering and tapped the “No outside food or drink allowed” sign pointedly.

“C’mon, man,” I tried, knowing it was pointless. “I’m not gonna eat a slab of raw meat in the middle of the Third Rail.”

Ham was unswayed. “Seen people try to get away with worse than that. Now shoo.”

Drinks were gonna have to wait. A hooker called out to me, promising a good time; a couple of drifters greeted me by name, and I gave one of them a visibly needed hit off my Jet pump. This was a new development: the closest thing I had to a permanent address was still the room to my name back in Diamond City, but Geneva could sort it out. I’d rather stick very sharp implements under my foreskin than risk running into my brother again. Pretty damn sure I’d kill him on the spot if I did.

Maybe I should.

I didn’t miss Diamond City one bit, though. I was a proud resident of Goodneighbour now, with all that entailed. I drifted from bed to bed, spending every night between a different set of thighs, waking up every morning to the thrill of not knowing where I was. _All_ without the hassle of uppity siblings tallying my so-called indiscretions. Free at fucking last.

I made my way up the stairs leading to Mrs. Farrell’s apartment. She’d already been old by the time the bombs dropped, so Daisy had pulled some strings to get her a place with a door that locked, on the third floor of an old apartment building. The far wall had collapsed, opening onto a view of Scollay Square’s blinking signs and string lights, but in Goodneighbour, that was prime real estate.

There was no answer when I knocked. I knocked again. Someone shuffled on the other side. “It’s me,” I called out through the door. “John.”

The door unlocked with a clack, then slid open by an inch or two. The chain was still on, so all I could see was one green, gold-flecked eye studying me through the crack, fringed by dark lashes.

Definitely _not_ Mrs. Farrell.

I glanced at the apartment number on the door. The numbers themselves were long gone, but the imprint left still read 307. This was the right place. “Uh,” I said, very eloquently.

“John who?” the woman asked.

Shit. I really didn’t want to say it out loud. “Just John,” I blurted out. “Is Mrs. Farrell home?”

That green eye didn’t leave me. “Mrs. Farrell doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Any idea where she’s gone to?”

_Please don’t be dead_ , I thought. “I’m afraid I don’t,” she answered.

Despite the overt chill in it, the woman’s voice was lovely—high and musical, like something off some pre-war holotape. “I brought her some food,” I started, then sighed. There was no point. “Here. You have it. Fresh radstag.”

I held the paper-wrapped meat in front of me so she could see it, then lay it at her feet like an offering. I was already halfway back to the staircase when the door closed behind me, followed by the rattle of the chain and the whine of the door opening.

“Wait,” the woman said from the doorway while I picked my jaw off the floor. “Are you … Is everything okay?”

She had the looks to match the voice, so much so it looked out of place in Goodneighbour, or 2279 for that matter. She looked like she’d stepped right off some old billboard advertising soft drinks or flavoured cigarettes: _Tastes almost as sweet as her!_ in gaudy letters under that pout and you’d have made a killing. Soft, dark curls fell loose around her bare face, and long lashes framed those big green eyes. She was wrapped in a vaporous robe, and I glimpsed the line of one long leg under the lacy trim of her chemise.

Now I don’t believe in karma and fate and all that bull. The world’s too fucked up for me to think some high power’s pulling the strings, and if there’s some unknown clockwork spinning in the background, then it’s lost a few gears along the way. But something both strange and familiar drew me to her. Maybe it was just the novelty of being asked if I was okay, or the delusion that a woman like that could give two shits about a guy like me, but something soft and fragile had settled like a mist between us, like she really saw me, and maybe, just maybe, I really saw her in turn.

I considered cranking up the charm, see if I could flirt that silky, pink chemise off her, but I knew I’d ruin something precious if I pulled the moves on her. Didn’t matter if I never saw her again. I wanted to leave the moment intact when I turned around and left.

I gave her a sideways grin. “I’m all right.”

She took the radstag leg off the floor. Her robe slipped off her bare shoulder, exposing three beauty marks like dark stars on a pale, rosy sky. “I can’t take this,” she said, handing it back to me.

“Got plenty for myself,” I replied, falling back on the usual lie. “Wouldn’t want it to go bad.”

She frowned at some headline on the pages wrapped around the meat, then looked back at me. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Don’t worry about me.”

The corners of her mouth lifted in a hesitant smile, but just that small curl of her lips set her eyes alight, and a small dimple appeared on her cheek. God, she really was gorgeous. And familiar, but maybe I was actually getting her mixed up with some pre-war pin-up model.

“See you around, Just John,” she said.

I laughed, taken aback. Pretty _and_ witty. Deadly combo. “See you around.”

She didn’t offer her name, and I didn’t ask. I made my way back to the staircase and threw one last look over my shoulder when I reached the top step. She was still in the doorway, watching me; the last light of the day threw fiery highlights on the crown of her head and the curve of her shoulder, and I thought I saw that smile still lingering on her lips.

I lifted one hand in the air, then started down the stairs.

* * *

“Mrs. Farrell’s gone,” I announced.

Evan glanced up from his caps, then pushed them towards Whitechapel Charlie across the bar. “Good for her.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good thing.” I grimaced at the contents of my glass, but I couldn’t tell if the bitter taste sticking to my mouth was Chuck’s swill or Evan’s words. “I just feel like I should’ve tried harder, you know?” I said, dropping my chin on my palm.

Evan fished another handful of caps from his pocket, and added them to the pile on the bar. “Hey, Charlie, get the lad something with a little more kick. Gwinnett ain’t cutting it anymore,” he said, then turned back to me. “You’re gonna drive yourself insane if you keep this up. She could’ve gone off into the sunset with the man of her dreams, or maybe she’s dead in a ditch somewhere. My point”—he brandished one gnarled finger when I opened my mouth to retort—“is there’s no point torturing yourself over it.”

Chuck was lining up shot glasses on the bar in front of us. The lounge singer’s breathy falsetto floated above the shards of laughter and the clink of glasses, ethereal, like it belonged on a different plane than the rest of us. She was cradling her mic with one hand, while the other drew slow, sinuous shapes in the air. She spotted me looking at her, and smiled around the words of her song. I tried returning the smile, but it felt like anvils were hanging off the corners of my mouth. “I suppose so,” I mumbled, turning back to Evan.

He gave me a sad smile. “What your brother did ain’t your fault, Johnny,” he said, his voice as soft as a ghoul’s voice could be.

Chuck had whipped out a bottle of cheap vodka. Apparently I’d hung around the Third Rail often enough already for the bot to get a handle on my tastes. “Here you go, guv,” he said, filling up the last shooter. “It’ll make your insides as shiny as mine.”

“Thanks, man.” I took one of the shooters between two fingers, and clicked it against Evan’s. “Cheers.”

Wouldn’t have been surprised in the least if Chuck filled those bottles with watered-down antiseptic. The clear liquid seared its way down to my stomach, and a shudder ran through me even as I blew out the fumes in a long, tight stream, but it was worth it for the warmth that loosened my limbs up. Evan had the right of it. A couple more of these and I’d barely remember my own name, much less my brother.

The second shooter was halfway to my lips when some ruckus made me turn around. Vic, of course. He and his boys were there, terrorizing some poor bastard who’d probably breathed wrong or something. Either they’d come in after me or they’d been in the VIP area all along, because I’d have given the Third Rail a pass otherwise. Nothing Chuck served was worth ending up as the punching bag du jour.

The ghoul who had that honour that day looked pitifully scrawny next to them. He stammered an apology—something about a spilled drink—while the gang circled him like ferals smelling blood and made fun of his stutter. Classy. Spend some time in Goodneighbour and you inevitably learned their name: Buck had one meaty hand fisted around the guy’s collar, while Ritchie with the blue hair and stupid goggles egged him on. Vic watched disinterestedly, one boot propped on the edge of the table, his beer on his knee.

“Bloody hell,” Chuck said. Not much he could do, though, considering Vic owned the place. I only realized I’d stood up when Evan clasped the back of my shirt to keep me from … what, exactly? I’d no idea if I meant to play hero or skedaddle.

Heh, who am I kidding. The latter, of course.

Buck pulled his fist back, ready to swing. I winced apprehensively when a sweet voice rang from the speakers and zapped through me like a gamma round: “Come on, boys,” the singer sighed into her mic. All heads turned towards the stage, mine quickest of all. “What’s a girl gotta do to keep your attention?”

The ghoul had both hands pressed flat to his face, one bloodshot eye peeking between his fingers almost comically. Buck’s fist had frozen mid-swing. His dark eyes flitted to Vic, then back to the singer. “Stay out of it, Lizzy,” Buck warned, but the heat had gone out of his voice.

Lizzy pretended not to have heard him. “Here I am, singing myself hoarse and wearing myself thin for you men’s entertainment, but none of you are even paying little old me any attention. What am I going to have to do next,” she continued, the green spark in her eyes turning wicked, “take off my clothes?”

She slid the hem of her silver dress up to reveal stockinged white thighs and the straps of her garter belt. A couple of patrons cheered and whooped at the sight, and a few more risked a chuckle, throwing nervous glances in Vic’s direction. “She’s right,” he announced, an amused grin slanting his mouth. “Knock it off or take it outside, boys. Some of us just wanna enjoy the show.”

He raised his bottle in Lizzy’s direction. Buck shoved the ghoul back, then slumped back into his seat, sulking like a kid. The ghoul slunk away, not sparing a single glance over his shoulder before running out of the Third Rail. Conversations picked up where they left off, and Lizzy’s voice rose again in the thickening smoke, clear and smooth as glass. Evan said something, but I barely heard him. All I could see was her: green eyes, smooth skin, that one little dimple next to her smile. Take off the red lipstick and the eyeliner, unpin the curls, and you got the girl from Scollay Square.

No wonder she’d looked familiar.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you’re thinking: _come on, Hancock, that was obviously the girl from earlier_ , but you have the luxury of knowing what I’d only just found out. There were two Lizzies: the one who danced in the Third Rail and made every man in the place feel like she was singing to him and only him—and the sweet, bare-faced girl who’d seen me in the doorway of her apartment and thought of asking if I was okay.

And if there was one thing I wanted to take off even more than her clothes, it was the mask I knew she was donning now.

“Earth to John,” Evan said, waving one hand in front of my eyes. “Geez, need a hanky for that drool?”

“Sorry,” I blurted out, heat creeping up my face. “What did you say?”

He cast a long look in Vic’s direction, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, a dark, wry smile playing on his lips.

We drank in silence after that, save for Evan gesturing at Chuck for more shooters. The vodka was fiery as kerosene; lighting up probably wasn’t a good idea, but in the words of the ancients, carpe diem and all that. I slipped a cigarette between my lips, then rummaged around for the Hotel Rexford matchbook I could’ve sworn I’d left in my back pocket.

Found it. When I looked up, Evan was smiling at me conspiratorially. “What?” I asked around the smoke dangling from my lips.

I struck a match, but even the burning sulfur didn’t smother the sweet fragrance now tickling my nose. I turned to find Lizzy leaning against the bar next to me, tantalizingly—and terrifyingly—close. “Hi, Evan,” she said, her voice just the perfect amount of husky. A dark lock of hair slipped from behind her ear to curl around her cheek. “Hi, Just John.”

My heart did a somersault. I only just managed not to let the smoke slip out of my mouth and make a complete fool of myself. “Hi,” I said. “ _Ow. Fuck_.”

I shook the burn from my fingertips, and glared at the match sizzling on the countertop. So much for not making a fool of myself. Lizzy flicked her lighter open, a grin slanting her red mouth. “You play with fire, you’re gonna get burned,” she said, the flame dancing in her eyes.

Wish I’d paid attention when she warned me, but I wasn’t listening. Didn’t matter that I was just about ready to combust. I didn’t think I was invincible so much as _insignificant_. Here’s one of my secrets: I only have the reputation of being popular with the ladies because I never waste time on women—and men—who’re out of my league.

And sugar bomb here? _Way_ out of my league.

Lizzy was still smiling, one hand cupped around the shivering flame of her lighter, shadows pooling into the dips of her collarbone and cleavage. Evan cleared his throat, and I bent forward to light up, finally remembering the cigarette still stuck into my mouth. God, she smelled so good: something sweet and spicy, like hubflowers and unlit cigars. “Thanks,” I blurted out.

“Pleasure.”

Chuck handed her a bottle of Nuka-Cherry with a candy-striped straw. She thanked him, then winked at me and Evan before returning to her stage, one last whiff of perfume filling the space left behind her.

Evan nudged me with one elbow, and I couldn’t help but smirk into my glass as I watched her sing, eyes closed, lips rounded like those of a lover.

* * *

Evan left, but I stuck around like a lovelorn fool. The booze had left the world pleasantly fuzzy at the edges, and if I closed my eyes I could pick out Lizzy’s voice from the din of conversations and let everything but the sweet velvet of it drop away. The patrons got rowdier as the night deepened, and soon she wrapped up for the night. She disappeared backstore, then reemerged a few minutes later, the stilettos traded for lace-up boots and a leather jacket thrown over her shiny silver dress, and smiled at me and Chuck on her way out.

I cleared my throat to get Chuck’s attention. “So, um. Lizzy,” I tried. “What’s her story?”

“Anything she wants you to know is her business,” Chuck retorted. Amazing how a robot could sound so scathing. “And start being a creep and I’ll have Ham on your case.”

I considered myself warned. I finished my drink, then made my way up the escalator. Ham nodded at me as I left the ancient subway station to step into Goodneighbour’s humming neon lights. The night was young, and I had nowhere to be, so I drifted down the street, waiting for something—or someone—to catch my eye.

Someone did, all right.

Lizzy hadn’t made it far. Her hair and the silver of her dress shone in the lanterns crisscrossing the street, and two familiar shapes were blocking her way.

“I’ve had a long night,” I heard her say as I padded closer. “I wouldn’t be able to give you boys the attention you deserve.”

“Don’t you worry about that, love,” Ritchie said. “We’ve got the chems to keep you going all night.”

“Just a little private show at the State House,” Buck added, in a voice that made my skin crawl. All I could see was the crude skull tattooed on the back of his shaved head, but I could picture the slippery smile on his face. “We’ll make it worth your while.”

Of course. It was too much to hope he’d let what happened back in the Third Rail slide. Vic wasn’t there to get his boys back in line this time, not that you could count on him to do it. For all I knew, he’d put them up to it.

Lizzy tugged her arm free from Buck’s grip. “I promise I’ll be singing for you at the Third Rail if you come back tomorrow,” she said, her smile belying the frost in her voice, “but I need my beauty sleep.”

“Hey,” I peeped, except no one heard me so I cleared my throat and tried again. “ _Hey_.”

Both men turned to look at me like I was radroach guts stuck to the bottom of their shoe. “Piss off,” Ritchie said, eyes narrowed behind his goggles. His baseball bat swayed at the end of his arm. Lizzy mouthed something that might’ve been _John, no_.

“You heard the lady,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. My shotgun was loose in my hand, the barrel pointed at the ground. “Leave her alone.”

Buck lifted his palms up. “Well, all right, then. Since _you’re_ asking.”

Huh. Easier than I thought. “Glad we could—”

His knuckles smashed into my cheekbone. My head snapped to the side, the flare of pain rattling in my teeth. The blacktop ran up to smack me in the face. For a moment my senses narrowed to the dull throb pounding in my cheek and jaw. Once the stars cleared out of my eyes, I saw Buck towering over me, his mouth twisted in an evil smile. He kicked me in the stomach, and the Gwinnett and vodka came right back up.

Okay, yeah. Not my finest moment.

If one good thing came out of it, though, it was that I’d taken their attention away from Lizzy. Ritchie was enjoying the show, oblivious to the kick she was aiming at him. The toe of her boot sank so deep into his crotch I thought his balls were going to jump out of his mouth. He keeled over, his mouth round as his goggles, while Lizzy grabbed the bat he’d dropped and raised it overhead.

Buck was still turning around when she swung it down onto his skull.

He collapsed on the concrete with a grunt. Lizzy clutched my arm and tried to pull me to my feet. “Come on,” she panted, using her body as a counterweight. “We gotta run!”

I struggled to my feet before she pulled my arm right out of its socket. Goodneighbour wobbled in front of me; the pain and nausea made it hard to breathe, but her hand was clutched tight around mine, and I had no choice but to stumble after her when she took off running. One of the two guys brayed something at us, but the words were lost to our footsteps and the harsh wheezing noise of my breath. The crack of gunshots rang through the street soon after, bouncing off the buildings around us, but we turned a corner and made it out of range.

We ran down the maze of Goodneighbour’s backstreets and alleyways, slipping past drifters and zigzagging between dumpsters and crumbling fire escapes. Lizzy’s hand was warm around mine, and she shot me a wild grin over her shoulder, eyes shining and cheeks rosy with the effort. A giddy rush sprang into my chest, no chems needed. I’d get my ass kicked again any day if this was the reward.

And then we ended up in a deadend.

“Shit,” Lizzy panted.

“Over here,” I said, pulling her towards a nearby chain link fence. I managed to vault over it despite my stomach still clenching in pain, but I kicked myself mentally when Lizzy struggled to do the same in her short, form-fitting dress. I pretended I didn’t get an eyeful of pale, smooth thigh and lacy underwear as I helped her swing one leg over the fence, then the other, and caught her as she dropped on the other side.

Ritchie and Buck weren’t far behind us, judging from the approaching commotion. I spotted a fire escape, and when I caught Lizzy’s eye I knew we were thinking the same thing.

Up we went.

The metal staircase shook under our feet. I expected the whole thing to come crashing down any second, but it held, at least till the stairs came to an abrupt halt three stories up. The door and window were boarded up, so I ducked behind an old rusted grill and pulled Lizzy into the shadows with me.

We huddled together, her back pressed to my chest, and tried to still our panting breaths. Lizzy’s white-knuckled hand clasped my knee, and her palm was warm even through the denim of my jeans. Her perfume tickled my nose, and heat stirred inside my chest like there weren’t two guys on my tail, dead intent on punching my lights out.

Buck and Ritchie showed up soon afterwards. Their shapes moved between the rusted metal slats of the fire escape, prowling the alley like cats. I pulled Lizzy closer and deeper into the shadows, praying they weren’t smart enough to look up. She shifted against me, and I heard the telltale click of a pistol. Packing heat under that little silver number, apparently. I wasn’t exactly looking forward to Vic’s reprisals if two of his goons turned up dead in an alley, but short of dropping the grill on their heads, we were out of options. I held my shotgun ready.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” Buck called out, his voice coming from almost directly below us. If he just looked up he’d see us. Lizzy tensed against me, and I stilled my breath. “Come on out.”

Ritchie sighed. “Forget it, man. They’re gone.”

A harsh noise tore through the night, and Lizzy jerked against me. One of them had kicked a trash can, and the metal lid clattered to the ground as they left the alleyway. “ _Fuck_ ,” Ritchie said, limping. “Think I can say adios to having children.”

Buck snorted. “Then she did the world a favour.”

We kept our weapons trained on them till they were out of sight. After a few minutes, we finally started breathing again; Lizzy relaxed against me, and I dropped my head on her shoulder, the two of us giddy and shaking with helpless laughter. I reluctantly disentangled myself from her and pulled myself up on wobbling legs, and stretched my hand out to her. “Guess the Third Rail is off limits for me now, huh,” I said as she dusted herself off.

“Oh, I don’t know. Knowing them, they’ll get so high they won’t remember why they’re so sore tomorrow.” She smiled up at me. “Thanks for stepping in, by the way. It was very gentlemanly of you.”

I ran a sheepish hand through my hair. “Nah, thank _you_. I’d have hurt a lot worse than my pride if it weren’t for you.”

She grinned. “I wouldn’t get too cocky yet, Just John. You’re going to feel this tomorrow, most likely.” She brushed a finger to my cheek, and I was aware again of the throbbing pain spreading from the side of my face. She was right: the vodka and the euphoric rush had dulled the edge of the pain, but it’d be back with a vengeance soon enough. “Come, my place isn’t too far. I’ll patch you up.”

I watched the sway of her hips under the line of her leather jacket, then followed her down the fire escape. If I had to pick the point where I was utterly done for, it’d be right around here.

* * *

I’d seen the inside of Mrs. Farrell’s apartment before, but the place was unrecognizable now. Mrs. Farrell hadn’t really bothered with decorations: the only thing that made the place look lived in at all was a flower-patterned tablecloth, some doilies, and a vase or two, all courtesy of Daisy.

Clearly, Lizzy had a different take on decor. String lights washed the place with a pinkish glow; old movie posters plastered the walls, and between the plastic plants and flamingoes I spotted a clothes rack so full the rod sagged under the weight of all the dresses and coats.

Lizzy had disappeared behind a folding screen. The smell of the coffee brewing on the stove was just starting to fill the air, and I sat on the upholstered couch, chewing on a piece of gumdrop, while a scantily clad Synthia Marsh stretched a desperate hand in my direction on the poster of _Night of the Fish Men’s Revenge_. Lizzy soon returned, first aid kit in hand, changed out of her dress and into that robe I’d seen before. Her hair fell down her shoulders in lazy curls that bounced when she sat down next to me.

“You’re going to end up with one hell of a bruise,” she said, dabbing some antiseptic on my cheekbone.

I tried not to wince at the sting of the antiseptic, even though that ship had already sailed if I’d hoped to impress her with how tough I was. “Worth it,” I replied, grinning.

“Flatterer.” Her eyes were dancing when they met mine, then flitted back to my abused cheekbone. Her tone was light when she spoke again, but she was watching me attentively. “So, what’s your story? I wasn’t aware Goodneighbour had a delivery service. Not usually what men have in mind when they offer me their meat, I have to say. I feasted like a queen.”

Any other time I’d have busted a gut hearing those words coming out of her mouth, but all I wanted was to crawl under the coffee table. Telling her the truth scared the hell out of me. Maybe I feared she’d lump me together with my brother, or worse, that she shared his views. But no, she’d made herself a target just to get Vic’s boys off that poor ghoul, back in the Third Rail, so that couldn’t be the case.

Not just a pretty face. She was the real deal.

So, I told her. Who my brother was, what he’d done to the ghouls of Diamond City, how I’d tried to help them out, for what that was worth. Now most of them had run away from Goodneighbour’s turf wars, muggings and extortion, and I felt like a failure all over again.

Lizzy’s eyes were gentle when they met mine. “You can’t blame yourself for that. You did more than anybody else.”

“Yeah, that’s what’s so fucked up about it. If anyone could’ve stopped him, it was me. I mean, I tried, but …” I shrugged and stared at the scuffed toes of my shoes, my head hung low. “Sure, the people in the stands are haughty assholes, but I never thought anyone would vote for something so … so _sick_. But once that was out, there was no stuffing it back in.”

“He said out loud what people had been thinking to themselves,” Lizzy said quietly, with the subdued anger of someone who’s seen it before. “Legitimized their hate.”

“And the rest weren’t willing to do a fucking thing about it.”

I blew out a deep breath, then turned to look at her. She was looking back at me, her head resting on her arm, and her arm resting on the back of the couch. She was so close I could’ve counted her lashes in the glow of the string lights hanging above us.

I didn’t wanna fuck her. I mean, _yes_ , but I didn’t _just_ wanna fuck her. She got it, and it felt like a blast of oxygen after weeks spent suffocating. “You have no idea how much it means to have met someone like you,” I said before I could talk myself out of it.

Lizzy blinked. “Like me?”

“Managed to talk Vic’s boys down back at the Third Rail, didn’t you?”

“Oh, that.” It was her turn to shrug, but I didn’t miss the pink tint that rose to her cheeks. “You know what performers are like. Can’t stand not to be the center of attention.”

I gave her a lopsided grin. “Well, you’ve certainly got mine,” I said, running my thumb along her jawline.

The spots of colour on her cheeks intensified, but a smile curved her mouth as she balled one hand into my shirt and drew me closer. Her lips were soft against mine, and the sugary taste of the Nuka-Cherry still lingered on her mouth. Wish I could’ve stopped time right here: the smooth curve of her cheek under my hand, that breathy laugh vibrating under my mouth as I kissed her throat, the warmth of her body sliding into my lap. The robe slipped off her shoulder, revealing the lace trim of the bra underneath, and I kissed her till she was breathless and red with stubble burn, till kisses didn’t do it anymore.

For once the sex wasn’t even my favourite part. Don’t get me wrong, it was amazing, but even better was feeling less alone than I had in a long, long time. Few things in my life ever came as close to perfect as that first night with Lizzy, spent tangled up naked on her couch, talking till the morning sun inched its way across the floor of her apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I would share the wonderful artwork the equally wonderful [makkuromurasaki](https://makkuromurasaki.tumblr.com/) did of Lizzy for this AU. Thank you so much! <3

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always welcome and appreciated! Come say hello on [Tumblr](https://asaara-writes.tumblr.com)! <3


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